


The Ties That Bond

by unknowableroom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-07-24
Updated: 2007-08-02
Packaged: 2019-01-19 06:46:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12405168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknowableroom_archivist/pseuds/unknowableroom_archivist
Summary: The power the Dark Lord knows not…inconceivable to him, incomprehensible to others.  >> Various takes on the multi-faceted thing called love, a series of one-shots differing in both length and content.





	1. petunia: never again to be "evans"

**Author's Note:**

> Note from ChristyCorr, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Unknowable Room](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Unknowable_Room), a Harry Potter archive active from 2005-2016. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project after May 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Unknowable Room collection profile](http://www.archiveofourown.org/collections/unknowableroom).

**I’m looking for constructive criticism, not credit for the characters that belong to JK Rowling.**

You stand there, pushing your little blonde boy on a swing. You love him, you really do, but he holds none of the intrigue of the little black-haired boy that showed up on your doorstep three months ago, the one that you have subsequently grown to resent. That little boy is five metres away, playing in the sandbox by himself. Perhaps he feels your gaze on him, because he turns away from you and meets your pale grey eyes with his own, strikingly familiar, green ones.

The reappearance of Lily’s eyes haunts you more than you can say. Every time you look into them, you are reminded of your sister, and you are accosted by simultaneous feelings of guilt and grief. This is the real reason you recoil when he brings his eyes to yours, not because of the hatred he later thinks you harbor toward him.

Harry resumes his playing, quietly patting the sand into shapes only he can comprehend, and you stand there for a second, lost in Technicolor memories of another set of swings and another playmate.

A pale, disheveled boy edges into your musings before you are interrupted by a loud wail.

“Shhhhh, Diddykins,” you croon into your son’s ear. “The boy from Spinner’s End won’t hurt you. Mummy’s here.”

…

You catch a glimpse of the envelope clutched in your (nearly) eleven-year-old nephew’s fist, a small crest just visible through his fingers. It dredges up memories decades old, of another hand clutching an almost identical letter. Harry’s inquisitive look is the same as eleven-year-old Lily’s as he stares at the name on the seal. Once again, Hogwarts has sneaked into your kitchen.

You feel the same anvil on your chest as when you found out who, what, Lily truly was. And no, not a freak—someone with powers beyond what you can believe or ever possibly achieve, however hard you attack life with a sharp pencil point and an even sharper tongue. 

_Dear Professor Dumbledore,_

_My name is Petunia Evans. I am thirteen years old; my sister, Lily Evans, recently received a letter from your school. I am writing to ask…_

Vernon’s loud voice cuts through your painful remembrance; you still can’t believe you had had the courage to request a place at Hogwarts, but you still feel that slight little twinge of longing. When he realizes the significance of his nephew’s mail, Vernon gives you a fearful look and he catches a mirrored expression on your face. You, however, have a different reason for the look; you know that the wizarding world, a troublesome, humiliating recollection, has come into your life again.

…

You are scrubbing furiously at the kitchen counter, yellow rubber gloves pulled taut to your elbow, sponge producing satisfying lather, hard gaze scanning the immaculate white tiles for offensive spots. As you pause for a moment to rest, you hear a sound from upstairs.

“It’s the boy, just making noise,” you think to yourself. 

The sound increases in volume, and you can now hear Harry’s cries clearly. 

“No…not Cedric. No!” You can hear him tossing in his sleep, his fitful moaning recalling a baby freshly delivered from the wreckage of his family’s home. You place the sponge on the counter and peel off the hard gloves, placing them neatly by the sponge. Feeling somewhat as though you are about to burgle an unsuspecting victim, you slowly open the kitchen door and tiptoe down the hallway. 

Upstairs, standing in front of Harry’s bedroom, you wonder why you go to all this trouble--you didn’t even know the _meaning_ of trouble before he showed up. Once you’re inside the room, you remember why. Your nephew is there on the bed, a haphazardly-arranged pile of limbs and bed linens. He reminds you of your former brother-in-law, but never—not once from the moment you first saw him standing on your parents’ doorstep, arm around your little sister—did you see this same anguish on James’ face. 

You swore to stamp it out, not for the reason he thinks, but to protect him from this torment. Now you can only wish that the worst he had to contend with were a car crash. 

…

You are caught alone in the room with your nephew; you didn’t expect that. He looks at you expectantly, his green eyes boring into yours. You know this is likely to be the last time you will ever see your nephew again and that your last connection to your sister will be severed, but you can’t think of what to say. 

“I’ll miss you,” or “Good luck” flit through your mind, but you know they will sound hollow from your lips. You want to say something nice, something encouraging, _something_ to your dead sister’s only son, but you cannot think of what to say. 

So you, Petunia Dursley, turn and exit. Surprisingly reluctantly, you shed the last vestiges of Petunia Evans, leaving behind a boy who has given you more than you have ever given him. 


	2. percy: the once and again weasley

 

 You were a Weasley, and at the very least you were always demarcated as such by everyone else. Then your Hogwarts career fleshed out your résumé and you became “Weatherby”; you set your horn-rimmed sights on better titles and offices instead of settling for being the butt of Fred and George’s jokes. You never thought you’d abandon your family, but you did. 

Once the true Minister lost his say, you lost your faith. Your pride was pushed aside, your self-assurance was chalked up to be inconsequential, and your allegiance was admitted to be misplaced. You never thought you’d oppose the Minister, but you did. 

And now that Fred’s laughing visage is eternally frozen, what _wouldn’t_ you give to hear him crack, even once more, a joke about the shine quality of your Prefect badge. The boy that always spurred on your high horse became the man who welcomed you back with grace, ease, and all those other things you once thought foreign to him; war makes people grow up too fast.  You never thought you’d miss your brother’s teasing, but you do.

You know you’ve chosen the right side. 


	3. peter: ultimately betrayed, as any Marauder

**Hopefully this one doesn’t have as many divergent storylines as I think it does…**

Despite what everyone thinks when they hear your story (the true version), you aren’t a traitor.

Traitors make conscious decisions to abandon previous beliefs and former friends to take up new, severely contrasting mantles; you did no such thing. _Traitor_ is merely libel— you are more aptly labeled _coward_.

…

When the Dark Lord summons you to his presence, you can’t help but be awed by his obvious power: the Death Eaters, ready and eager to do his every bidding; the long, graceful fingers, draped casually around the handle of his wand; the hissing voice reverberating in the room long after he finishes his salutation. 

This awe soon gives way to syncopated pulses of pride, for he has called you, of all people, to stand in front of him.

He begins to speak again and the standing gives way to cowering, because he asks you to do the unthinkable.

“What do you say Pett—what is they call you? Wormtail?—will you join my Death Eaters, or will you try to be valiant, noble, _Gryffindor_ and defend those who you call your ‘friends?’” 

You did not even know that the name of your house could be spoken with such contempt, but the Dark Lord does not pause to let you consider this or his offer; he decides for you when his long, graceful fingers tighten around his wand. 

“Y-y-yes, m-my Lord. I am hon-hon-honored…to do your…b-bidding.” And there, with, shamefully, little hesitation, you seal your fate and the fates of those who you call your ‘friends.’ 

…

Loyalty, you’ve grown to accept, is a form of love; fear was the perfect glue to bind you and your new Master together, irrevocably and irreversibly so.

…

Harry’s words permeate the silver haze of your concentration and you vaguely register who it is you’re fighting. As soon as you pause, you know you’ve slipped up—the only way you’ve managed to survive this long under the Dark Lord’s Mark is through quelling any uprisings of human devotion, by allowing fear to govern your every move—now you’ve exposed your weakness, and you struggle doubly hard in an attempt to cover it up.

It’s no use. 

That hand, that _monster_ is a true traitor: it took stock of and is exploiting your weakness at the most inopportune moment for you, the most auspicious moment for it.

As you wrestle fruitlessly with the silver claw that is wrenching the last air from your body, you think fleetingly that, in a seeming act of mercy (or at least of repayment) the Dark Lord bequeathed upon you the perfect antidote to everything good.

You can now say that though your wand is on Voldemort’s side, your loyalty is on Harry’s.

It’s too late. 


End file.
